


You & Me

by AvaRosier



Series: 'Tis The Season [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8658613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: Jon accompanies his stressed out wife on a last-minute trip to the grocery store on the night before Thanksgiving.





	

“Okay. Here’s our battle plan-”

“Battle plan?” Jon couldn’t help smiling at his wife. She looked so adorable with that determined look on her face, still gripping the steering wheel as she stared out the windshield at the bright marquee of the grocery store.

Sansa turned away to stare incredulously at him. “Yes, battle plan. In case you hadn’t noticed, the parking lot is even more crowded than usual. It’s the night before Thanksgiving, Jon, half of King’s Landing is doing their last-minute shopping. I planned and planned and planned and look where I am now?” Her voice was beginning to grow shrill. “A pathetic schmuck like all of them.”

“Whoa, whoa, where is all this coming from? So what if we have to pick up a few things? It’s the holidays, we’re supposed to relax and enjoy it.” He tried rubbing a hand over the back of her neck but Sansa only batted him away.

“No, _you_ get to relax while I spend hours doing all the hard work,” she muttered, more than a little bitterly, before grabbing her purse and leaving the car. Jon stared after her in shock, getting out of the car and making sure the doors were locked before he jogged after Sansa’s rapidly retreating figure.

He’s known Sansa for probably thirteen years, four of which they were romantically involved, and now less than one of which they have been married. He’s never seen her like this, not really. Granted, she could be rather ‘little miss Type A’ about things sometimes, but he wasn’t sure what about this Thanksgiving was stressing her out.

“Whoa!” Jon yelped when a harried-looking middle aged woman nearly clipped him with her recently acquired shopping cart. The cart bay was practically empty. Sansa ignored this and went for one of the black shopping baskets instead. He didn’t try to engage his wife at first, instead preferring to follow her stormy expression as she stomped into the produce section. When he saw her toss a celery bunch into her bag he winced.

He’d been off today, she hadn’t, and he’d been bored so he had snacked on a few stalks of the celery that had been in the crisper.

Then they darted around the obstacle course of Bumper Carts to make it into the bakery section. He was close enough to hear Sansa mutter something about 'white bread, white bread, what am I going to do with all the rest of that’. “Why do we need white bread? You’re making your meemaw’s favorite rolls and there’s sourdough bread, too.”

“Because apparently your mom only ever used white bread in that stuffing recipe you love, never anything as 'fancy as sourdough bread’.” Sansa snapped, nearly smushing the white bread from the force she used to throw it into her basket. Ah, now the mystery began to make more sense. Jon reached into the basket and deftly plucked the white bread out, tossed it back, and ignored her indignant squawk so he could turn her to face him.

(Sometimes when she looked at him like that, with her brows furrowed and her jaw locked and lips pressed tightly together, he could almost see what a mad four year-old Sansa must have looked like. Sometimes he thinks he can see what their children could look like.)

“Firstly, my mom always made sure I helped out in the kitchen and there’s no way I’m letting you cook everything alone. Also she thinks anything that takes longer than thirty minutes to make is ‘fancy’.” Lyanna Snow was many things, but a good cook was not one of them. “Secondly, I’m not saying I don’t care about the effort you’re going to, but you do realize you don’t need to do certain recipes exactly the same? Make the stuffing with sourdough anyways.  You know I’ll eat it all by tomorrow night.” Jon kept his tone light, looking up into her blue eyes. She was still wearing the heels she’d worn to work that morning and half the fun of trailing behind her into the store had been admiring the angry sway of her hips in that pencil skirt.

A sniffle. He was starting to get through to her. “Come on, we need to grab some more ground cinnamon. I didn’t realize how little I had left.” The heat was mostly gone from Sansa’s voice and she let him hold her free hand, fingers interlocking, as they made their way past the aisles. Of course the baking aisle was crammed full of last-minute shoppers. Slowly, carefully, they began to wind their way around people and carts; at one point, Jon had to jump over an errant toddler whose mother didn’t seem to care that her son was blocking everyone’s way.

By the time Sansa found the damned spice- the last tin, mind you- she was breathing a bit fitfully as if she wanted to just start sobbing in the middle of the aisle. No longer caring about the people surrounding them, Jon took the basket from her and set it down so he could take her into his arms. “I just wanted our first Thanksgiving together away from our families to still have everything we love so it doesn’t feel like we’re missing out,” she near whimpered into his sweater.

They’d moved here because Sansa had gotten a great job opportunity after graduating with her degree and Jon, well, he could do his job in a lot of places. It had been a no-brainer to make the move, especially since they were young. Their schedules hadn’t allowed for time to fly up north and his mother was spending the holiday with her husband’s family in Dorne, whom Jon was not familiar with for the most part.

Well, no wonder his wife was stressed out.

Jon stroked a comforting hand down Sansa’s back. “Remember when we first moved into the apartment? How we decided not to spend the first evening moving the furniture or unpacking every box?”

“Hmm mm.”

“And we just picked up some wine and ordered takeout that we ate on a blanket on the floor with the windows open so we could see the view of the city at night?”

“I remember. It was like camping without all the stuff I hate about camping.”

He snorted. “It was fun because it was just the two of us. Our own adventure and we got to make up the rules. So why can’t this just be _our_ Thanksgiving? No timetables, no rules? You and me.”

Sansa let out a shaky sigh before straightening up and looking at him, her eyes brighter with the faint sheen of tears. “That does sound nice,” she said wistfully.

“So what do you say?” He cajoled.

She glanced up and down the aisle and then grinned, and even after all these years, Jon could feel his gut clench at the beautiful sight. “I say that ‘you and me’ sounds like a great plan.”

Whatever Jon was about to say was interrupted by the hard object slamming into his leg. “Hey!” He turned to glare and the offender, only to see a little old lady in a mechanized cart scowling up at them.

“Move it or lose it, buster! I could drop dead at any time, so don’t waste it by loitering in the aisle,” she snapped at him. Jon sighed and turned back to Sansa.

“Did that battle plan of yours come with an exit strategy?”


End file.
